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May glances at where Peter lay, tossing and turning in his sleep, his face covered in sweat.
“How long until the helicarrier lands?” she asks, worrying her lip.
They had travelled for days after getting the message that the helicarrier would land here, at Central Park. They’d almost completely run out of supplies, the backpacks on each person nearing empty after their trek. And above all, Peter had been bit.
Peter’s identity had already long gone out the window. After all, there’s no use in hiding it when the apocalypse takes a much higher priority. Spider-man had helped convince people to trust them, and she couldn’t let Peter couldn’t wear the mask 24/7 (and May made sure that he wouldn’t be).
Ned hums and boots his phone up again—they’ve been conserving battery wherever possible since this started.
“It looks like it’ll only be a few hours, they’re not far,” he answers nervously. The reason for the nervousness is obvious. All Ned’s been doing ever since they reached the checkpoint has been staring worriedly at Peter’s unconscious form and biting his nails as the sun has progressively set.
May checks her watch; it’s half past four. Tony said they’d land by seven. It’s not a good position. New York is far too populated for the group to stay in the city for long, and they’re vulnerable to any of the thousands of zombies that could run into them simply by chance. Their saving grace has been the zombie’s almost absolute deafness and object impermanence—they only chase what they can see, and don’t seem to have the presence of mind to follow a person once they’ve lost them.
They didn’t make it without their losses, though. Francis and Don, the loveliest old couple physically couldn’t stand the journey. Especially not at the pace they needed to maintain to outpace what was after them. Madeleine, their daughter, was adamant on not leaving them behind, until Francis and Don disappeared one night, leaving only a letter behind—May’s wasn’t clued in on what exactly they wrote, but could guess well enough from the grief that followed poor Maddie for the rest of the journey, her husband hardly able to console her.
May doesn’t blame Maddie for what had happened. She knows how grief can take a person out of it, just like it did Peter when Ben died. Maddie fell behind, got attacked, and Peter made his choice—he put himself between her and the zombie, taking the bite in her stead.
On purely logical reasoning, it was the best outcome. Peter is the most likely to survive a bite, with his enhanced healing. Emotionally though, May wishes that Peter hadn’t done it. She knows that this was Peter’s choice, and he saved a woman’s life. But at the risk of his own… May would have rathered Maddie get bit, as callous as that sounds.
Peter’s condition hadn’t gone downhill too quickly. It was easy to tell something wasn’t right, in the way Peter swayed slightly, the glazed over look in his eyes, and the weakness with which he held May’s hand. Peter’s body was fighting back against a disease no other person had won against.
Peter groans once again from where he lays, and May kneels down to replace the makeshift pillow Peter had with her lap. She brings a hand to gently run through his hair, the other cupping his cheek. Peter leans into the touch—something he’d probably be embarrassed about if he was conscious. May gives a light kiss on his forehead, lips burning from the feverish heat the boy's body emanates, and settles in for the wait.
The helicarrier lands at 6:45pm. Early.
Tony rushes out, uncaring of those inside trying to hold him back, shouting that it’s dangerous out—they’re not wrong, it absolutely is. Their group crowds Tony, seeing him as a saviour, though he realistically is their saviour, hardly letting him exit the ship. Tony pushes past until he makes eye contact with May, his eyes then drifting down to the pale boy at her knees.
He stares for a few moments before averting his eyes, calling into the Helicarrier for what May finds out to be the medical team. They come rushing out, gowned up and stretcher in hand, before kindly asking May to step away.
She watches almost numbly as her nephew gets carried away on the stretcher, into the Helicarrier, and can only hope that she’ll be able to speak to him again.
(She arrived at the hospital before the ambulance did and stood at the back emergency staff exit, where she knew they would bring him in through. She listened as the sirens grew closer and closer. She watched her husband be carried in and somehow caught how the light left his eyes. They asked her to step away before, out of the ambulance, they coerced Peter out. In that moment, May could see in Peter’s glazed over eyes that he wasn’t living in that moment either).
The rest of the day floats away as they all try to settle into the Helicarrier. Try, only, because it would always be impossible to truly settle in given these circumstances. May stays in a room in the more ‘private’ area of the Helicarrier, where Tony and the other Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. staff stay, though if not for the proximity to the medbay, she would’ve rather stay near the people. Maddie needs support, Ned and MJ don’t have anyone to trust other than themselves, and Tony is hardly available enough—both physically and emotionally—to provide any comfort to May.
The medical team say they’ve got nothing to give Peter; a vaccination is in-progress, but not yet ready to be administered—it’s not even a physical thing yet, only a concept, only hopes and dreams. And with nothing, all that can be done is keep him comfortable. If comfortable means an isolated glass room, with no entry in or out unless absolutely necessary.
—
It’s so boring being kept in here.
The room is big enough, sure, but all it’s got is a bed with boring white sheets, a TV, a single uncomfortable chair, and a depressingly grey overbed table next to it. Everything in here is in shades of white and grey and Peter is losing his mind.
Well, yes, he got bit, and he should be kept an eye on. But that doesn’t mean his brain’s turned to mush yet. (Peter refuses to think about what would happen if it did).
Anyways, the room’s just a glorified reinforced glass box. Peter would rather think that the nausea constantly sitting in the back of his throat is from him going stir-crazy rather than any other reason. Rather than a normal entrance, there’s just a big glass sliding-door (that’s usually locked—locked such that Peter can’t get out, even if he wants to).
Someone knocks at the glass and Peter jumps from where he’d just been zoning out. It’s Tony, standing awkwardly but waving and grinning like Peter isn’t being kept in a cage. He holds a takeaway coffee in one hand and a Redbull in the other—Peter’s not sure how Tony found out that he’d been sneaking Redbulls after May would go to bed, but so long as he doesn’t tell her, he won’t question it.
“Hey, Pete,” Tony says, slipping the Red Bull through the slot in the wall and shutting the hatch. Peter slowly gets up from his bed, wandering over to grab the drink. It feels like laying in bed is all he’s been doing recently. There’s a lingering dizziness he’s feeling, a lingering sensation that he’s going to throw up any moment now, the lingering feeling that the room is too hot, too clammy, for the A/C turned to the freezing temperature it is.
Peter swallows back the sickness. “Hi, Tony.”
He smiles. Sort of.
Tony frowns.
“What’re you up to? Putting that mind to work, thinking too many thoughts?” Tony drags a chair over to sit down in front of the glass.
Peter sits on the floor, leaning against the glass and not facing Tony entirely. He’s been staring at the ceiling all morning, not feeling up to much else. Having enough food to eat over the past few days has helped him feel a little better, but Peter isn’t hoping for much more—he’s started to feel worse, as of today. He did watch Terminator 2 yesterday though.
“I watched some of Terminator, it was good.” Peter only mentions yesterday, he doesn’t tell Tony about what he’s done (or not done) today.
“Oh? Which one?” Tony asks, taking a sip of his coffee.
Peter cracks open the Redbull. “The second movie. It’s my favourite of the series.”
Tony gasps in offense. Beginning to rant about how Peter is failing to appreciate the classic appeal of Terminator 1.
Peter closes his eyes and lets Tony’s voice wash over him, the energy drink doing little to keep him awake.
—
Ned sits excitedly behind the glass, waiting for Peter to grab out his half of the lego set from the hatch. Peter has no clue how he managed to get one while here in the Helicarrier, but you won’t catch him complaining about it.
He wipes the sweat off of his forehead.
It’s so hot here. Why doesn’t Ned look hot?
Ned takes photos of the instructions pages he’ll need for his half, then slips the booklet through the hatch too.
Ned manages to make so much more progress than Peter does at his half. Peter feels slow.
He tries pressing two stubborn pieces together and drops a piece once again, his hands shaking too much to let him connect the legos. Peter sighs, picking the piece up again and trying not to cry.
“Hey, man, do you have pack 24? I can’t find it,” Ned asks.
Peter looks around at his pile. There it is—24.
“Yeah, let me just…” Peter places it in the hatch, closing his end’s door and allowing Ned to grab the pack out.
Ned opens the hatch and reaches in, but hesitates before touching it. He stares at the pack, his gaze flickering between it and Peter.
“Um.” Ned withdraws his hand nervously.
Peter doesn’t think the infection works like that, but acquiesces anyways, taking the pack back. The pack of lego’s won’t bite—it’s Peter they have to worry about, isn’t it? He looks away and reassures, “It’s okay, I can build 24.”
Ned stammers over a series of apologies and sorry’s that Peter doesn’t need to hear.
—
They speak in hushed tones, just far enough from Peter’s room that he struggles to hear them. Not far enough, though. They probably think he’s sleeping.
“We’re not sure if we’ll be able to make a cure before it’s too late.”
A choked sob.
“What do you mean? Can’t you—!”
Shouting.
“We are doing everything we can.”
Peter rolls over, pulling the pillow over his ears.
—
“Hey nerd.”
Peter jumps at the sudden voice, but recovers (relatively) quickly. “MJ!” he says with as much enthusiasm as he can muster.
It’s not much. It’s something, though.
Peter kicks the blankets out of the way and turns the TV off as he gets up. He wasn’t really watching anyways.
MJ drags a chair over to the glass to sit near, stretching her legs once she sits. Her brow furrows a little at how Peter sways when he stands—he had been hoping she wouldn’t notice. He hurriedly makes his way to the glass and sits on the floor cross-legged.
“Not grabbing a chair?” she asks almost incredulously, gazing at Peter’s chair on the other side of the room. (Honestly, Peter’s not sure if he’s willing to spend the energy it would take to drag it over). He’s still trying to make it look like he’s not out of breath from the few steps he walked.
“I prefer the floor,” Peter says, patting the floor and revelling in how the stinging brings back even the slightest sensation to his cold, numb hands. “Very comfy. You should try it.”
MJ hums and continues looking at him.
“Why are you here now, anyways? I thought you had that lunch with… whoever it was today,” Peter asks.
Her brow furrows a little more, the stress lines that Peter hates to see put on her face but loves equally—because it’s MJ—getting deeper.
“That was 3 days ago, Peter.”
“Oh…” Peter laughs awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. His hands are freezing against the heat of his core. He swears she only told him yesterday. “I guess I forgot?”
MJ stands up, and Peter almost shouts at her to not leave, but she doesn’t. Rather, she sits on the floor, right in front of him. She places her hand against the glass and waits for Peter to reciprocate—probably an action real metaphorical, something his English teacher would love, but Peter can’t find the thoughts within him to explain how it makes him feel.
“Are you okay?” she asks, all genuine and honest kindness in her voice.
Peter pastes on a watery smile.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” he says.
She doesn’t call him out on the lie, instead pressing her forehead to the glass.
Peter leans forward and wishes the glass weren’t there. The closeness isn’t real like this.
The glass is cold.
“You’re strong, Peter.”
He shivers.
—
Peter sits up slowly, hanging his feet over the edge of the bed for a good minute before the black spots clouding his vision begin to fade, allowing him to finally stand. He drapes his blanket over his shoulders for the short trek to the hatch hardly ten feet away, letting the routine of the morning take over, feeling both too hot and too cold, like his body can’t decide what’s wrong with it. Someone dropped off breakfast for Peter this morning, though he’s not sure who. They’re probably long gone by now—the plate of bacon and eggs has gone cold already.
Peter brings the plate back to his bed, where the overbed table has been parked for the past few days, placing it down gently. Peter’s surprised he hasn’t worn a trail into the ground yet with how many times he’s walked the line back and forth, feet skidding lazily along the ground.
Peter falls back into the bed and spends the next few moments stuffing around with his blankets. Finally ready, he looks over at his breakfast. Bacon and eggs, probably cooked by a chef trying their very best to meet all the orders coming in from the helicarrier, and two slices of toast neatly placed on the side. Peter swallows.
He grabs a slice of toast and forgoes buttering it, simply taking a bite and chewing slowly. It tastes bland, like everything has been recently. Peter winces as crumbs fall down all over him and the bed, putting the toast back and trying to swipe it all off onto the floor instead. Peter swallows down the toast sludge in his mouth and pushes the overbed table away, so that it’s not looming over him in reminder to eat. He’s not that hungry anyways.
Peter rests his head down on the pillow and settles in to wait for the nausea to fade (it hasn’t faded for three days now).
He counts the scuffs on the walls, the dots on the ceiling, the spots in his vision, the slow breaths he breathes. The chair in the room has started to gather dust on the seat, the grey film coating its exterior and making Peter even less keen to sit on it—not that he has been.
Peter thinks the worst thing might be that there’s no window. He’s drowning the bright, fake, white artificial lights all day, condemned to never see more than monochrome until he gets a visitor. He does get visitors, but Peter can’t bear to look for too long. He thinks they can hardly bear to look at him, too.
—
Whoever it is holding his hand, Peter only wishes that they’ll never let go. It’s incredibly selfish, he might turn at any moment, but he can’t help himself from wishing.
“Sweetie, you’re going to be alright.”
Peter sniffles, but doesn’t open his eyes. He’s not sure if he knows how to.
A warm hand brushes by his forehead, a cold cloth in its wake half refreshing and half freezing Peter.
He can smell May’s favourite perfume. He made fun of her for bringing it with during the apocalypse, but now he’s glad that she didn’t leave it behind. She smells like home.
There’s the sound of a constant rushing wind. His nose is dry. It’s both so hard to breathe and so easy to just let the air float away out of his lungs and fly into the breeze.
“Just a little longer and it’ll be okay.” She rubs her thumb to the back of his hand.
Further, “May, it’s not safe like that,” Tony says. What’s not safe? Peter feels like a balloon with not enough helium in it, just drifting along. If it’s not safe, will Peter be able to do anything to save May?
There’s a distant rustling, like dry leaves. The snapping of gloves. Soft, calm breathing. The clinks of metal.
The rustling walks its way in to join Peter and May, he hears. He hopes they never leave. He doesn’t care if they’re wearing a silly plastic gown or not.
“I need to swap his I.V.,” the rustling person says. Who’s growing ivy in here? Peter didn’t know it could grow without any sunlight. In this room, inside, with no sunlight at all.
May lets go of Peter’s hand, moving backwards.
It takes all of Peter’s strength to reach back out, to grab her hand.
“It’s alright, sweetie. I’m not going anywhere.”
May squeezes his hand, the warmth of it seeping into Peter’s, if just for a little.